


LindsayTuggLife: Origins

by rage_quitter



Series: Immortal FAHC Origin Stories [6]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: F/M, Fake AH Crew, Immortality, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rage_quitter/pseuds/rage_quitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lovely firebird Lindsay's been painting the world red since the twenties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	LindsayTuggLife: Origins

Lindsay Tuggey had no reason to complain about her life, it seemed. She had a fairly wealthy family that loved her dearly. She had the prettiest dresses, the most delicious food, the softest bed.

But despite the money and the comfort, Lindsay’s parents were never satisfied, especially not with Lindsay. They’d hoped for a dear darling of a daughter, who was prim and proper and stayed quiet, with “Yes, mummy,” and “Yes, father,” and would marry a nice boy with a nice fortune. She was a prodigy, learning to speak and read and walk every.

They very quickly found out that she was not so. They were Mama and Papa to her, and she befriended and intimidated every boy her age. She learned to curse at two, made mud pies in the backyard, and beheaded her dollies. She stole her male friend’s clothes and they shared with her their toys and books, despite her parents disapproving of her education. She excelled at algebra and loved science and the blooming technology of the age.

She aged beautifully, taking her mother’s looks and her father’s charm, and began to realize how it could be a weapon. When she wanted something, she would bat her eyes and pout her lips and melt everyone’s hearts around her. Throwing tantrums was foolish and failed, she discovered quickly, and learned to manipulate those around her. Into her early teen years she wore light dresses with a knife strapped to her thigh, taught to her by her father, who was concerned for his wild little girl’s safety. She painted her lips as cherry as her hair and swung her hips when she walked and waited for boys to collapse at her feet.

When she was thirteen years old, Europe exploded into war.

Not that it affected her much, living in Texas. Her family lost a little money as trade decreased, but otherwise she was fine. Until three years later, when America joined the war, and her father joined the war.

A flag came back in 1918.

Her mother was an absolute wreck. She died soon after from the shock and loss, despite Lindsay’s best efforts to keep her in health. As a woman of only 17 with no husband, her family’s fortune went to her cousin, who was not a nice man, and she thanked her father every moment for her training in using that knife.

She refused to stay with him for any more than six months and stole a significant amount of her own money. She slipped from a dress to pants and chopped off her hair and stole from the home in the middle of the night. She hopped a train and rode all the way to California. Los Angeles was very different from her small town in Texas. She easily got a job as a textile worker, playing off as a boy the entire time. She smoked cheap cigars and drank cheap alcohol and taught herself to pickpocket. She learned to shoot a pistol from a homeless man and to drive from a friendly gentleman.

Then in 1920, two years after her father’s death, liquor was outlawed. And it opened doors for her.

She was quickly approached by a man looking to sell moonshine, but he couldn’t drive. She agreed to drive the vehicle for him in return for payment. The cash they made was more than either could believe, and he grew greedy and careless very quickly. He was caught, and she took the rest of the moonshine and bolted underground.

Within a year and a half she became a wanted man, by both the police and moonshine makers, who wanted her skill as a driver and her mysterious ability to get away with anything. The state was very quickly growing in population, many of them wanting alcohol.

Lindsay joined a loose criminal ring of runners under the dealings of a man who made very good liquor, the best she’d ever tasted, who was centered somewhere south of LA. It was 1924, and she had the time of her life. She was constantly asked by other runners how on earth she was so good at evading the police, and refused to tell them that once the liquor was stored in her car she changed into her loveliest dress and sweet talked police off of her back, spinning lies like a spider until they chased her goose tale. It was a wonderful ruse, even though summers were hell in her baggy clothes. Only her supplier and two in-between members knew that Lindsay was a woman.

Lindsay was a riot at races. Cars were faster, lighter, and she wasn’t bad at making bets, especially when she sabotaged them in her favor with her alternate persona as a lovely woman. She stored her rapidly amounting fortune in buried lockboxes marked on a map she kept tucked in the wraps around her breasts.

It was supposed to be just another easy run for a now 24 year old Lindsay in 1925. She was taking a cache of gin upstate, and was wearing pants but her hat off and her chest unbound for the drive as rain splattered against the windshield.

She wasn’t paying attention to the road, it was her own fault. She looked up too late and slammed the breaks. Her tires spun out on the wet, slippery road and she frantically turned the wheel. The car veered sharply off of the road, and out of the corner of her wide eyes she saw the deer race off the other way, an instant before the car rolled off the road, flipped twice, slid sideways down a slope and crashed into a tree, practically shredding the vehicle and the woman inside.

Cold rain on Lindsay’s face woke her up with a groan. She sat up, grimacing, and looked down. God, her clothes were torn and covered in mud and blood. She shakily stood up and examined her surroundings. She was by the road, back a bit from where she’d crashed… did she crawl here and pass out? How was she even alive?

Shivering from the cold, she started walking back to where she was pretty sure her car wreckage was along the side of the road. She reached it, cold and wet and miserable, and maneuvered her way down. The vehicle was destroyed, wrapped around a tree. She stared in horror. No way she got out of that thing alive without a miracle. The cabin was crushed.

Moving on autopilot (a term not coined for several years, but relevant all the same) she gathered what she could from the car, her bag with her clothes and some cash and her map and a single bottle of gin, her gun and her knife, and her hat. The gin was ruined, spilling out over the ground. She sighed in dismay. That was a few hundred dollars down the drain.

Lindsay began walking on the road again, hoping to make it to anywhere and stay a night in shelter. Her feet began to ache after two miles of slogging through cold mud.

To her surprise she heard a sound of a car behind her and turned her head. She gripped her bag strap with one hand and her gun in her jacket.

The car stopped. There was an elderly couple inside. The woman leaned out the window. “Excuse me, are you all right?”

Lindsay gave up on her masculine persona for the moment. “I… my car crashed a few miles back,” she said. “Where’s the nearest town?”

“Oh, you poor dear, don’t worry, we can take you there, right, honey?” She turned to her husband, who nodded.

“You can?” Lindsay hardly dared hope. “I don’t want to get your seats wet and muddy…”

“Oh, no, don’t worry, you are much more important.”

Still hesitant, Lindsay let her gun slide back into her jacket and accepted the ride. She lied about her trip, saying she was escaping from a horribly abusive husband. Not nearly the truth, but the best she could do on the spot without telling them she was a bootlegger.

Once in town, Lindsay thanked them and found an inn to stay in for the night, glad she had enough money, and nearly screamed when she stripped her filthy clothes to take a shower. Her torso, arms, legs, and parts of her face and neck where covered in shimmery silver skin. With trembling fingers she traced over the marks, and her mind flashed back to the wreckage of her car. She imagined her body crumpled in the driver’s seat, and was glad for the toilet when she realized how the scars–for that’s what they were–lined up perfectly with the crushed car.

Before Lindsay could contact anyone she was affiliated with her car was discovered. Her male persona was dead.

By the end of the year she found that she was immortal. Her second and third deaths were out of her own carelessness and annoyance.

She quickly rejoined the criminal ring, this time as Lindsay, rather than Lin. She reveled in her beauty, flashing toothy smiles and red lips and a little more skin than society approved, and broke men’s bones with her bare hands and laughed as blood spilled around her blade. Bootlegging remained one of her favorite pastimes, except she was aggressive now. She no longer bribed her way through police and either threatened them or talked them in circles. Never did a man touch her without her allowance, else he’d lose his fingers to her knife and her fist landing on his face or, more often, his testicles.

Five years later prohibition was repealed. Her bootlegging days remained strong for the next year, but it was getting tough quickly. She turned to selling more dangerous substances and more elevated crimes.

She learned to shoot all kinds of guns, favoring pistols, which were easy to hide. She excelled at hand to hand combat, but loved killing people without laying a hand on them. Cars, accidents, poisons, she liked getting her hands dirty without actually getting her hands dirty. She traveled the country in her work, building a reputation for herself, but no one could ever quite catch her. She was excellent at vanishing.

Sometime in the 1950s, with poodle skirts and curly updo’s and leather jackets and hot rods, Lindsay found a boy. She’d been with men before, of course, but this Michael guy was… he was fiery. He was angry, he had a mouth, he had a punch like a bear. He loved leather jackets and he loved fast cars and he loved getting into trouble. They met on a job, both hired as mercenaries to scare a couple of gangers away from another one’s turf. Their only business was money, until they hooked up afterwards, just once, and it was too dark to tell but she could swear through her sex-hazed memory that his skin felt scarred under her fingers, too much, that in the very dim light he was silver with the red. They didn’t have sex again, but went on two dates before his money took him elsewhere.

Time zoomed by for her, and the crime scene took her to San Andreas. She heard rumors of a Crew rising in the area and clicked well with Jack. She wasn’t an official member, but the pay was good and there was a lot of thrill. She was the first outsider to discover their immortality, when Gavin, drunk, tried to drive her, equally drunk, back to her apartment after the two celebrated a job and drove off a bridge. The pair reappeared side by side, much to their shock.

A while later, only a few years, she received a message from Jack about two new members of their crew. Two more immortals. Jack wanted them to meet.

And by God–It was Michael motherfucking Jones. She didn’t know his friend, but the two recognized each other instantly.

As soon as the shock wore off they were out of the room, fumbling for privacy and skin and painting the world red.

Lindsay was eagerly accepted into the crew’s inner circle, and Lindsay and Michael’s love was red, like her hair, her lipstick, the explosions he loved, the blood they shed, their tempers and language. It was a never-fading fire.

Ryan joined later, and Michael proposed, and their wedding wasn’t much but Michael cried, and Lindsay too, and then they celebrated with fireworks and police chases. They celebrated a lot of things like that. She’d never trade a minute of it for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> I purposefully left her out of Michael's story. I wanted it exclusively in hers.   
> As far as I have planned there is one more after this, Ray's. I might write B-Teams as well, although they will not be posted in age order like the main crew's.


End file.
